fifteen drabbles
Fifteen drabbles. The first two were written ages ago for the Harry Potter non-canon comment ficathon, and the last thirteen were written for the makeout meme that went around. Written in the order requested, no particular spoilers for any show.
Harry Potter | Harry/Hermione. a regret, you might say
She grabs his hand despite his protests, using all her body-weight to pull him out of his chair and lead him onto the dance floor.
Role reversal at its finest.
(Except Harry's shoulders are rigidly optimistic, an almost-smile trying to peel itself off his face.
Except he isn't allowed to mourn.)
Hermione's fingers clench around his, going for encouragement or comfort, but ending somewhere between Look Happy--For Ron. For me--and I'm sorry. I shouldn't have to be. But I am. She twirls to face him, a skip in her determined step, a glow sweeping over her skin. Her head tilts to the side and he sees a wetness brewing in her eyes. Probably from how surreal it all is--she's married now, after all. Probably, but maybe-
(Harry shouldn't hope like this. Especially not now.)
He squeezes back, going for congratulations and not I love you. She exhales shakily and Harry decides both messages were received. He's not surprised; he could never get it quite right, and she was always the perceptive one.
There's a slither, buzz, crash, hiss as fireworks light the sky above, drawing the entire party's attention. Harry isn't diverted. He looks at Hermione, the slope of her neck, the way it curves into her shoulder, the white dress hugging her hips. He thinks about how if he closed his eyes and concentrated they could apparate away. Go anywhere else and this wouldn't be real.
(Oh, but it's all too real. There are some thing magic cannot undo.)
Instead he splays his fingers on the small of her back, pressing her closer, watching her mouth form a small 'o' as she gasps in surprise. She settles her chin on his shoulder, her cheek pressed against his. He sways to her warmth and the systematic cracks forming inside himself. Closing his eyes, Harry remembers the lantern's glow and the slither, buzz, crash, hiss of the radio naming the dead.
She's slipping away but if feels like he is slipping away too.
He adds his name to the list: Harry Potter, the boy who lived.
There's a tap on his shoulder and Hermione detaches her body from his, gulps, hesitates--or maybe that's hope, tickling his scar again--and smiles softly.
"Let's look at the fireworks," Ron says, slurring slightly from all the butterbeer he's been drinking--a glass before the ceremony, a few after.
He reaches for Hermione's hand as she drops Harry's. He claps Harry on the back with enthusiasm, an ear-splitting grin on his face, cheeks to match his hair. "See you later, mate".
"Goodbye, Harry," Hermione whispers.
The vibrations hit his eardrums in finality.
He alters his name on the list: Harry Potter, the boy who forgot to die.
Harry Potter | Harry/Hermione. those who admit defeat too late
The war is over.
(But did it ever really begin?)
There’s an ache in her bones, creases in the corners of her eyes, moments when she stops, exhales, forgets what she’s doing.
Age comes before its time.
So much else comes after.
Too late.
For the first time the rules don’t make sense.
(She knows she’s going to break them.)
She smokes her first cigarette on a park bench, snow melting in her hair, ring cold on her finger. She can feel his eyes on her before he speaks a word.
“Congratulations.”
“It was inevitable.”
“Wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
(No.)
Sheets do not tangle around limbs, champagne does not bubble in flutes, whispers of love do not leave lips.
Instead-as if it is some sort of alternative-they wait. Wait for phantom brushes between backs of hands, letters written in code (love your dear friend, love what could have been), dark corners smelling of dust and betrayal.
They attend family dinners at the burrow, avoiding eye contact and lingering gazes and pools of blue behind wide pupils. There is discussion of family vacations and how to use muggle appliances and all things trivial.
They have (treacherous) silent conversations: secrets clink with glasses, thighs press together on not-so-crowed couches, bodies melt together in false goodbyes.
There are some (many) words they do not (cannot) speak.
There are quiet moments (all his moments), hot breath evoking goosebumps, moans caught in her throat, fingers against her clit, eyes wide open, but all she sees is black.
Everything else is loud, thumping in her ears.
Always ready to deny, prepared to avoid, dying to run.
“You proposed.”
(The reasons are wrong.)
“I thought it was time.”
(This is what defeat feels like.)
“Ginny’s great.”
(She’ll never love you best.)
There are nights when she lays awake-Ron snoring beside her-thinking of forbidden, warm nights in a cold, damp tent. Sinful afternoons against stacks of books, legs hooked around his best friend’s waist. Wakeful dreams of running.
Farther, Farther, Farther.
Never quite away.
Never reaching her destination.
The war is over.
(Why didn’t he fight?)
Skins | Rich/Grace. (you never had a chance you know) incurable romantics never do
Rich stretches his palm over Grace’s knee, his thumb rubbing circles over the spot where bone meets flesh as a breathy sigh escapes past her lips. Her eyes flutter shut, her hair splayed around the pillow as he kisses her temple, her cheekbone, her jawline. Her palm is smooth, feathering over his shoulders to curl around his neck; he can feel strands of hair caught between her fingers, a light, pleasant tug on his skull.
“Do you want to?” she asks softly, warm vowels ghosting over his ear.
Leaning up, he catches her eyes, clear and dilated, a vulnerability in the creases forming at the edges and the smile lifting up her lips. There’s honesty in the pressure of her fingers dancing beneath the collar of his shirt, the way she languidly waits for him to answer, blinking through the changing shadows of her eyelashes.
It’s different from the anticipation clawing at his chest, a sudden flood of anxiety and excitement. She’s calming, a rounded hum gliding through sharp jitters. Grace does that to him, makes him feel like his skull is pounding, a cacophony of noise that’s surprising and good and he just wants more more more in a way he hasn’t. He exhales, “yes, yes,” faster than he means too.
“Okay, Richard.” She laughs airily into the corner of his mouth, her lips pressing solidly into his skin before dragging him to her, biting his lip, slipping her tongue in between his gasp. Hot and sweet, tasting of chocolate and strawberries, his hand trailing up her thigh.
And then, dejected, “Oh no!”
“What?” he asks, hand stilling instantly at the edge of her skirt. He hopes he didn’t do anything wrong. He’ll fucking kill himself if he did anything wrong.
“I have to meet my parents for dinner.” She frowns apologetically, pushing up off her elbows as Rich rolls over, flat on his back, trying to even out his breathing.
Grace rolls over him, her knee jabbing into his thigh as she stumbles off the bed, grabbing her jacket and purse hurriedly before turning to him and fluidly pressing her mouth to his like a promise.
The Social Network | Mark/Eduardo. watch your compost turn to coal
Mark pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, unable to compartmentalize his annoyance and guilt and exhaustion. Not anymore, he can’t. His emotions and Facebook clouding together and intertwining in ways they aren’t supposed to do, weren’t supposed to do. Confusion whitens his knuckles as he thinks about the betrayal burning in Eduardo’s eyes, the sharp syllables pouring out of his mouth. Clarity pounds in his ears as he remembers the smallness in Sean’s voice over the phone, the paranoia sticking to each word. There’s no easily discernible solution.
To anything. No algorithm that contains the answer, no line of code that needs to be adjusted to fix the problem.
He doesn’t hear the squeak of shoes on tile, the rustle of a jacket or the staggered breathing. He doesn’t hear anything until there’s a loud slur behind him saying, “fuck you fuck you fuck you.”
Mark twirls the chair around, noticing the redness rimming Eduardo’s eyes, the slump of his shoulders, his fingers clutching at a half empty bottle of vodka. “Fuck you, you son of a bitch.”
Any rage Mark felt earlier has dissipated into an attempt at numbness that isn’t working as well as he’d like. He sighs and blinks and responds, “Eduardo.”
“That’s it? That’s all you have to say to me?”
No. “Yes.”
“Fuck you.”
“Would you like me to call you a cab?” Mark asks. It seems like the proper thing to do in this situation. He knows Sean would call security, smirk at Eduardo being forced out of the offices for the second time today. Mark doesn’t think he could take the image.
Eduardo stares at him, bites his lip. The silence is uncomfortable, even for Mark. He fidgets with his flip flops, sliding them on and off of his feet until deciding, “I’ll call you a cab.”
He calls a car and Eduardo’s still glaring at him when he turns back to his laptop and attempts to code. When he gets the call that the car has arrived he isn’t sure what compels him to get up and nod. “The cab’s here.”
“Fuck you,” Eduardo intones, quieter this time, his eyes sliding shut as he leans in, his mouth slanting greedily over Mark’s. Mark gasps at the contact, knows the vodka bottle has slipped to the floor from the echoing crash and the splash of alcohol on his feet. It’s rough and Eduardo’s nails dig into his back like he’s trying to prove something, take something back that’s rightfully his.
Eduardo breaks away and turns, wobbles, stumbles away, presumably to catch his cab, and Mark hears the faint echo of a “fuck” when the glass doors slam shut, final.
The Vampire Diaries | Matt/Caroline. we breathed summer like the sweet air
Caroline’s chatting incessantly about student counsel, her mom’s oppressive nature, how sad she is about Bonnie’s grandmother, the store being out of her favorite nail polish, the upcoming Miss Mystic Falls pageant and every thought that tumbles through her head. Matt’s having trouble paying attention.
The sun’s setting over the forest in the distance, muted and calm, casting the illusion of a halo around Caroline’s fraying hair, her pink lip gloss drying on her mouth. “Hey,” he interrupts her rant about the grade Mr. Saltzman gave her on her final history paper.
“I know, I was like ‘hey buddy do you know--”
“Caroline.”
“What?” She asks, shaking her head slightly, frazzled by the interruption.
“Shut up,” he says, reaching over and grabbing her hand, soft and small in his larger, more calloused one, trying to eliminate any harshness in the words.
“Oh.” She glances down, smiles a little, the corners of her mouth being pulled up slowly as if by a string. “Was I talking too much? Because you can totally tell me about your day.” She looks up at him and nods definitively, “Seriously, I want to hear everything, all the mundane details about what you ate and how much you hate math and the stupid thing Tyler said and--”
He cuts her off with a kiss, the end of her sentence muffled against his mouth. She hums, grinning and resting her forehead against his. “This is good too.”
Glee | Rachel/Jesse. people will say we're in love
Rachel’s flats scoff against the tile of the hallway, leaving a dark mark on the floor and a grayish splotch on her shoe. She doesn’t notice. She’s too focused on the line of Jesse’s jaw, the flip of his hair that looks natural but is probably sculpted with care each morning. His eyes sparkle when he speaks and Rachel focuses on his words, keeping perfect time with them, the carefully placed changes in tempo. There’s a grace to the set of his shoulders, the way he stands. A confidence radiates off him in waves and masks itself as arrogance. Rachel recognizes it from whenever she’s on stage belting out a classic.
She has never been happier to be so involved, making her the perfect candidate to show the transfer students around McKinley. She vaguely hears Principal Figgins introducing Jesse to her, sees him turn to face her, a smile crests over his face and he sticks his hand out for her to shake. She grabs it, shakes enthusiastically and grins back in awe.
“Hi, I’m Jesse. Jesse St. James,” he says the words normally but they bombard Rachel as a whisper, floating to her melodiously.
“I’m Rachel. Rachel Berry,” she echoes, her heart thumping erratically around.
“Rachel Berry. I like that.” He pauses, meets her eyes, slips his hand to the small of her back and urges her forward easily. “Ready to show me around?”
She nods, gulps, and tries to regain her voice.
She relaxes as she takes him around the school, shows him which hallway his locker is in, (the same one as hers, she smiles), where the cafeteria is (advising against the vegetarian meatloaf), the gym, the bathrooms. When she gets to the auditorium he takes the lead, hopping onto the stage, his legs swinging over the ledge.
“Come on up,” he says, offering his open palm to her.
She hesitates-for show, she’s not that easy, there’s decorum to follow in situations like these-before daintily placing her hand in his strong, solid one and pushing herself onto the stage. Looking out at all the empty seats, she smiles.
Jesse begins humming “People Will Say We’re In Love” and Rachel can’t help joining in, reveling in the smoothness of his voice, his ability to match her bravado, his ability to match her. It’s exciting, the danger floating behind his irises contrasting with the sureness of his vocals, the sincerity that curves his vowels and radiates into her bones.
When he kisses her in the middle of they'll see it's alright with me, people will say we're in love, Rachel’s not sure if it’s because of the singing or because of him or a little of both, but she feels breathless. She isn’t sure she cares as she curls his fingers into his hair.
Greek | Casey ; Rusty/Ashleigh. as soon as you say it out loud
Casey cups her coffee in her palm, taking a small, burning sip, reveling in the warmth spreading down her throat and into her stomach. She pushes thoughts of law school to the back of her mind, trying to relax as she walks down the hallway, stopping in front of Rusty and Dale’s apartment-and Ashleigh, she reminds herself, she always forgets that Ashleigh lives there now, too.
She knocks on the door and waits, fumbling to check her phone when it vibrates-a text from her mother she’ll get to later-and sighs. She knocks on the door again and takes another gulp of her coffee. When there’s no answer she rolls her eyes. This is ridiculous. She tries the doorknob slowly, grateful when it gives way under her palm and she opens the door, sticking her head in cautiously, “Rusty, I, oh my god!”
Rusty and Ashleigh pull apart and jump off the couch. Rusty’s face immediately goes pink with embarrassment and Ashleigh grins sheepishly, running her fingers through her hair. Casey grips her coffee tighter and doesn’t hear the soft thud of the door closing behind her over the rushing of blood in her ears. “Oh my god!” she repeats.
“I’m sorry, Casey, I’m so sorry,” Ashleigh exhales. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you it just sort of…happened.”
“Happened?”
“Yes.” Ashleigh nods definitely. “Please don’t be mad.”
“Rusty?” Casey asks, feeling the air that left her lungs begin to come back.
“Yeah. It just happened.” He says, and then looks at the ground, his mouth cresting into a genuine smile.
She watches her brother glance at her best friend and she feels herself begin to smile, too. “It’s…fine,” she says. A beat and then. “I’m just going to need some time to adjust. But as long as you two are happy-”
“We’re happy,” Rusty interrupts, “I mean, I think.” He looks at Ashleigh again, hesitantly, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet.
“We’re happy,” Ashleigh confirms.
“Okay.” Casey lets herself grin. “Ash, do you have a minute?”
“Sure,” Ashleigh says, reaching out and squeezing Rusty’s hand before nodding that he can leave.
When Rusty’s out of the room Casey asks, “You and Rusty?”
Ashleigh just presses her lips together and nods, rocking a little from side to side.
“Okay,” Casey shakes her head, amused, “Anyway.”
The Social Network RPF | Andrew/Jesse. (this is not) the end
David doesn’t win.
They don’t win.
Andrew isn’t really surprised. It’s sad in this expected way, any last breath of hope spilling from within his chest, his heart settling back within his body once more. It’s not an ache from losing-awards aren’t the be all and end all. Pish posh-it’s from it ending. There’s a finality to the entire thing when The King’s Speech takes home the Best Picture Oscar and he claps, glancing at Jesse who’s clapping too, a small smile curving his mouth as his teeth sink into his bottom lip. Andrew imagines he’s happy it’s over, no speech to give, a break from the incessant flashing of camera’s and buzz of questions they’ve been hearing since October.
Andrew’s happy about that, too.
But-
The end is here.
But-
He never thought this day would finally arrive and now it has and he doesn’t know what the fuck to do. Breathe, maybe. Yeah, Andrew thinks he’ll start with that, exhaling out through his lungs and nodding his head along to the song being sung.
In and out and in and out and in and out, up and down and up and down and up and down.
He stops at the toilets before heading out to an afterparty to get drunk and dance and just enjoy this last night. He’s not going to mope or be sad or any of that, he’s decided, instead he’s going to enjoy himself and be grateful for this entire experience and Jesse-
Jesse shuffles in, running a hand through his hair, a frown deepening, his eyes hazy and ringed with an exhaustion that Andrew recognizes mirrored in his own stance.
“Congratulations,” Andrew says, drying his hands and studying the way Jesse shifts his weight between his feet.
“I don’t know if you heard, but we lost,” Jesse deadpans and Andrew sees the cracks in his bottom lip, watches the way his tongue juts out, quick, to moisten it.
“Ah, so that’s what happened,” Andrew feigns realization, smiles, stops, looks at his feet, the contrast between his black shoes and the crisp, clean white tile. When he looks back up and meets Jesse’s gaze he realizes something he’s probably-subconsciously-known he would do for months.
It’s not his most graceful moment when he lunges forward, settles himself against Jesse and bruises his mouth over Jesse’s, soft and needy and promising.
Promising-
This is not the end.
Parks and Recreation | Ben/Leslie. one night I fell asleep and woke up on that sunny street
Ben sits down at the small table in his old, dingy hotel room. It smells vaguely like moth balls but he’s gotten used to it over the past few months. The scoffs on the dresser, the scratch of the sheets, the drizzle of the shower, the rattle of the air conditioner, none of it bothers him any longer.
He sighs. He’s going to miss this place.
There’s a steady knocking at the door, something to an upbeat rhythm that he thinks he recognizes but can’t place. He glances to the blinking clock on the microwave reflexively and immediately remember it stopped working a few days ago, looks at his watch.
It’s late.
When he opens the door Leslie’s standing there, smiling brightly. “Ben!”
“Leslie,” he says, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice, “what are you doing here?”
“It’s Friday night,” she responds, as though that explains everything.
“Yes,” he drags out the word, opening the door a little more and allowing her to enter.
She looks around the small room, sitting down on his bed and crossing her legs. “This is a really nice room. The hotel’s business picked up last year when they finally got all the cockroaches out. It was a big deal. Front page of the newspaper for a week!”
“Oh.” He doesn’t really know what else to say.
“Come on sit down.” Leslie pats a spot on the bed beside her and grins again. “You need someone to hang out with, I need someone to hang out with. It’s Friday night!”
“Ann’s working?” Ben asks.
“No,” Leslie answer, knitting her eyebrows together briefly. “I just wanted to see you.”
There’s something about the sincerity in which she says it, the way she glances down at the comforter and pinches it between her fingers, that makes Ben cup her cheek in his palm and press his mouth to hers. She tastes like hot chocolate and Sweetums and...Leslie. He feels her grinning against his mouth, wrapping her hand around his neck, and he grins back.
The Vampire Diaries | Jeremy/Anna. the light that calls my name
He’s absentmindedly letting his eyes trail over the spines of the old books, inhaling the scent of dust and loneliness. Nobody’s read any of these in years, Jeremy can tell the cracks are old, the pages yellowing from age and not from use as he picks one up that looks promising, about the history of Mystic Falls and the supernatural, the spine cracking as he opens it, flipping to the table of contents.
“Guess who,” Anna sings, covering his eyes with her fingers. Her hands are cool against his face but her breath is warm against the back of his neck, and he resists the urge to lean back into her.
“Big Foot.” He deadpans, allowing the grin to spread over his face when she huffs and removes her hands. He spins around to face her, the pages of the book rough against his palm.
“I hate you,” she says, pouting.
“That’s too bad.”
“You don’t sound like you mean that.”
Jeremy shrugs, putting the book back on the shelf. “I guess you’ll never know.”
“Whatcha looking for?” Anna asks, walking down the aisle. Jeremy follows. He isn’t sure why, he just does. He just feels like he wants to go wherever Anna is going. “Something for a school report?”
“Nah, just looking. You?”
“Same.” Anna nods her head, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “Lately I’ve been very interested in books about boys who hang out at libraries because they want to relive the time we met.”
Jeremy chuckles, grabs her hand and laces their fingers together, pressing a kiss to her temple.
Glee | Brittany/Santana. (might as well face it) you're addicted to love
Santana’s fingers dance on the table, nails clicking against it every so often as she waits for her breadsticks to arrive or Brittany to come back from the bathroom, whichever comes first, she’s not picky.
Except her stomach feels like it’s ready to revolt in her stomach, so she’s partial to the food.
It’s different, dating Brittany. Brittany brushes Santana’s hair out of her face and tells her how much she loves her, pressing a soft kiss to her cheekbone. They go out on dates and sometimes Santana pays and sometimes Brittany does because there’s no guy to pick up the bill. They get looks from people in the hallway and Santana glares back, eyes slit and fist ready to pull out hair.
But it’s also not that different at all. They still walk through the halls, pinkies interlaced, Brittany swinging their arms back and forth happily; they still makeout in the back of Santana’s car and have sex all the time, cuddling on Brittany’s bed afterword. They still sit next to each other in Glee and Brittany laughs at all of Santana’s witty, piercing comments.
Plus there’s the added bonus that Artie looks like he’d rather be skinned than watch Brittany rest her hand on Santana’s knee.
It’s nice.
Santana didn’t know anything could be this nice.
When Brittany comes back she slides into the booth next to Santana and Santana says, “Britt, you can sit on the other side so we can see each other.”
“I can see you here,” Brittany responds.
Santana turns her head to look at Brittany and sighs, ready to explain that her neck is going to hurt like hell if she has to keep turning to look at Brittany when Brittany leans over and kisses her lightly, her fingers splaying over Santana’s knee.
“Yeah,” Santana breathes, “you can see me here.”
She kisses Brittany again, scraping her nails over the back of Brittany’s neck and slipping her tongue into Brittany’s mouth.
This is different, too. They kiss each other without needing to hide it or for the benefit of a guy.
When the breadsticks arrive Santana presses her thigh against Brittany’s and kisses her one more time. She’d rather have Brittany’s mouth on hers than all the Breadsticks in stock.
Parks and Recreation | Andy/April. somewhere there's sun, and you don't need a reason
Andy pulls April through the park, her smaller hand fits in his and he squeezes it periodically just to make sure she’s there-just to make sure she hasn’t fallen asleep on him yet. When they stop by the lake she leans her entire body into his like she’s trying to knock him over. He smiles, kissing the top of her head.
“Want to feed the ducks?” he asks. It was always his favorite thing to do as a kid. That and smoking weed.
“We don’t have any bread.” She looks up at him, her lips twitching like she’s itching to smile but holding it in. Andy knows April does that a lot and he always thinks of it as a challenge, he just needs to find a way to make her lips curve up into a smile despite the show she puts on.
“We could feed them…” He looks around the park, “grass. Or flowers. Or we could buy a soft pretzel and feed them that.”
“It’s okay,” she says, blinking out over the lake. “I hate ducks anyway.”
“You do not!”
“Do too.”
“No way, Ludgate.” He looks at her for a moment before shaking his head, not at all believing she could actually hate the cute little, quacking ducks.
“I do. They’re noisy and stupid and always leave one little duck out when you feed them,” she breathes out all at once.
“You feel sorry for the runt!” Andy exclaims, bumping her shoulder. She rolls her eyes and pulls on his hand, trying to get him back onto the path. He thinks about staying put until she relents but decides to follow her. He’s learned a lot about relationships, he has to pick his battles. “Come on admit it,” he says. This is one of those battles he can win.
“You think the little guy is cute and you want to take him home and make him all fat. You’d feed him Sweetums all day and dress him in little dog outfits and quack quack quack and read him bedtime stories like The Littlest Ducking and tell him even though he won’t turn into a swan he’s still the best and-”
She cuts him off by yanking hard on his hand, stepping up onto her tiptoes and slanting her mouth over his, warm and soft and determined. Knowing when to pick his battles also means knowing when to give up, so he runs one hand through her hair and pulls her closer with the other.
Gilmore Girls | Rory/Jess. the tune you'll be humming forever
Rory stopped lying to herself when she graduated college, it’s a personal rule. So she knows she’s been avoiding Jess despite the fact that his uncle just married her mom and now they’re at the reception. She’s fine with that, because she crossed his name out of all her books years ago and doesn’t need that to change.
She swirls her drink with her cocktail straw and sighs, leaning back in her seat, watching her mom twirl around and around in her dress, her smile taking up her entire face, her laughter echoing around the room and above the music. Luke looks awkward on the dance floor, his feet off-beat to the up-tempo song. She’s happy for them, they deserve this.
She’s so happy for them she forgets that she’s avoiding Jess until he slides into the empty chair next to her and says, “hey.”
Turning her head slowly, she answers, “hi.”
Jess stares at her for a moment, amusement jumping around in his eyes and the set of his mouth. “You sure have retained your skills as a witty conversationalist.”
“Sorry.” She sets her glass down on the table and smiles. “It’s just, the last time I saw you…”
“Let’s not bring it up.” He ducks his head, refusing to meet her eyes before looking back to the dance floor, watching the sloppy circles Lorelai makes as she spins. “I noticed Logan’s not here.”
“That’s ‘not bringing it up?” Rory asks, incredulous, trying to push a tint of annoyance into her tone, but it doesn’t quite work.
“Not at all.”
“We broke up two years ago.”
“Oh really?” Rory doesn’t like the arch of his eyebrow or tilt of his mouth.
“Really.” Rory exhales and gives up. Clearly avoidance wasn’t going to working. “Want to dance?”
Jess blinks, surprise coloring his face for a moment before he reaches out his hand. “Sure.”
The night takes a turn Rory wasn’t expecting. She spends the rest of it with Jess, dancing and talking and discussing the books they’ve read recently, bringing up past arguments about Ayn Rand and Hemingway. It’s a bit like before--like high school--with fluttering in her stomach and her pulse beating faster, faster, faster. But it’s also different, grownup.
Maybe that’s why she does it, frantic and hard and gasping, catching him on his way out of the bathroom, her mouth desperate and needing against his. She knows he’s different when he takes a minute to respond, breathing in through his noise, hands steady and strong on her waist. She feels his hesitance, unsure if he should push her away or pull her closer. He decides, his tongue slipping into her mouth, running over her teeth. He tastes vaguely of smoke and alcohol; he tastes like the Jess she used to know until he doesn’t. Until her head stops spinning and she catches her breath. A beat and her mouth is slanting over his again.
They’ve always been good at this part.
Doctor Who | Rose/Nine. the time we have, the task at hand
Everything outside the castle walls is space, sprawling and open and inviting. Rose loves the feel of the damp air against her skin, the Doctor’s hand rough and solid in hers as they walk away. King Arthur is fine, Lancelot and Guinevere haven’t done the nasty yet, and there aren’t any more aliens threatening Arthur’s reign.
Not yet, at least.
Rose kind of wants to come back, get a nice dress made for her, all regale to make her feel like a princess. She’d bring her own food and a blanket and they could sit down for a picnic. It’d make a good vacation spot, she thinks, a nice little place for the Doctor to relax and tell her about the cosmos, planets and worlds she hasn’t seen, places that don’t yet exist mixing with the archetypal past.
“We should come back,” she says, stepping around a patch of mud.
“If you’d like,” he responds, his eyes softening. He seemed angrier today than usual, which usually means he’s sadder than usual. Rose leans her head against his arm, trying to transfer her good mood into him, because if anyone deserves a moment of relief, it’s the Doctor.
She spots the TARDIS over the next hill and slows her steps a little, doesn’t notice the way the Doctor slows with her effortlessly. Getting up on her tiptoes, she attempts to kiss his cheek, but between her strides she misses, her mouth hitting his jaw a little harder than she expected, making him laugh.
Suddenly there’s a cheeky grin on his face, more life in his step. “Where to next? The future? Los Angeles?”
“Wherever,” Rose responds, stopping in front of the TARDIS to place a light kiss over the corner of his mouth and squeeze his hand.
He needs someone to make him smile.
(She’s stay with him forever.)
Buffy the Vampire Slayer | Spike/Drusilla. if i'm not mistaken it's been in flames
The fire licks at his heels and Dru licks at his neck, both threatening to engulf him completely, heat spreading from the back of his legs and from the pit his stomach. Spike grinds his hips into hers and she snarls, bites his vein hard. He drags his nails over her bony back, pressing tiny moons into her thin, pale skin, tempted to draw blood as she pulls on the skin of his neck, murmuring poetry against the flesh, her voice lifting and falling, louder then softer.
Spike runs his hands up Drusilla’s back, scraping around her neck without caution or preamble, tangling his fingers in her hair, watching smoke twirl into the sky as Dru twirls her tongue along his jaw, nibbling every so often, hard hard hard soft hard hard soft, no distinguishable pattern but to the music of the stars and the screams of the people. He drags her mouth to his, bruising and rough, teeth clanking and tongues attacking.
They revel in rebellion, in chaos and destruction. The world falling apart one country at a time, sprawling over landscapes at arrhythmic intervals, places rebuild and they leave, chasing the anarchy wherever they go, leaving rubble and blood in their path. Everything crumbles and they survive, following the effulgence of turmoil, of night, of Dru’s teeth sinking into the flesh of a child’s neck and then into Spike’s bottom lip.
Harry Potter | Harry/Hermione. a regret, you might say
She grabs his hand despite his protests, using all her body-weight to pull him out of his chair and lead him onto the dance floor.
Role reversal at its finest.
(Except Harry's shoulders are rigidly optimistic, an almost-smile trying to peel itself off his face.
Except he isn't allowed to mourn.)
Hermione's fingers clench around his, going for encouragement or comfort, but ending somewhere between Look Happy--For Ron. For me--and I'm sorry. I shouldn't have to be. But I am. She twirls to face him, a skip in her determined step, a glow sweeping over her skin. Her head tilts to the side and he sees a wetness brewing in her eyes. Probably from how surreal it all is--she's married now, after all. Probably, but maybe-
(Harry shouldn't hope like this. Especially not now.)
He squeezes back, going for congratulations and not I love you. She exhales shakily and Harry decides both messages were received. He's not surprised; he could never get it quite right, and she was always the perceptive one.
There's a slither, buzz, crash, hiss as fireworks light the sky above, drawing the entire party's attention. Harry isn't diverted. He looks at Hermione, the slope of her neck, the way it curves into her shoulder, the white dress hugging her hips. He thinks about how if he closed his eyes and concentrated they could apparate away. Go anywhere else and this wouldn't be real.
(Oh, but it's all too real. There are some thing magic cannot undo.)
Instead he splays his fingers on the small of her back, pressing her closer, watching her mouth form a small 'o' as she gasps in surprise. She settles her chin on his shoulder, her cheek pressed against his. He sways to her warmth and the systematic cracks forming inside himself. Closing his eyes, Harry remembers the lantern's glow and the slither, buzz, crash, hiss of the radio naming the dead.
She's slipping away but if feels like he is slipping away too.
He adds his name to the list: Harry Potter, the boy who lived.
There's a tap on his shoulder and Hermione detaches her body from his, gulps, hesitates--or maybe that's hope, tickling his scar again--and smiles softly.
"Let's look at the fireworks," Ron says, slurring slightly from all the butterbeer he's been drinking--a glass before the ceremony, a few after.
He reaches for Hermione's hand as she drops Harry's. He claps Harry on the back with enthusiasm, an ear-splitting grin on his face, cheeks to match his hair. "See you later, mate".
"Goodbye, Harry," Hermione whispers.
The vibrations hit his eardrums in finality.
He alters his name on the list: Harry Potter, the boy who forgot to die.
Harry Potter | Harry/Hermione. those who admit defeat too late
The war is over.
(But did it ever really begin?)
There’s an ache in her bones, creases in the corners of her eyes, moments when she stops, exhales, forgets what she’s doing.
Age comes before its time.
So much else comes after.
Too late.
For the first time the rules don’t make sense.
(She knows she’s going to break them.)
She smokes her first cigarette on a park bench, snow melting in her hair, ring cold on her finger. She can feel his eyes on her before he speaks a word.
“Congratulations.”
“It was inevitable.”
“Wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
(No.)
Sheets do not tangle around limbs, champagne does not bubble in flutes, whispers of love do not leave lips.
Instead-as if it is some sort of alternative-they wait. Wait for phantom brushes between backs of hands, letters written in code (love your dear friend, love what could have been), dark corners smelling of dust and betrayal.
They attend family dinners at the burrow, avoiding eye contact and lingering gazes and pools of blue behind wide pupils. There is discussion of family vacations and how to use muggle appliances and all things trivial.
They have (treacherous) silent conversations: secrets clink with glasses, thighs press together on not-so-crowed couches, bodies melt together in false goodbyes.
There are some (many) words they do not (cannot) speak.
There are quiet moments (all his moments), hot breath evoking goosebumps, moans caught in her throat, fingers against her clit, eyes wide open, but all she sees is black.
Everything else is loud, thumping in her ears.
Always ready to deny, prepared to avoid, dying to run.
“You proposed.”
(The reasons are wrong.)
“I thought it was time.”
(This is what defeat feels like.)
“Ginny’s great.”
(She’ll never love you best.)
There are nights when she lays awake-Ron snoring beside her-thinking of forbidden, warm nights in a cold, damp tent. Sinful afternoons against stacks of books, legs hooked around his best friend’s waist. Wakeful dreams of running.
Farther, Farther, Farther.
Never quite away.
Never reaching her destination.
The war is over.
(Why didn’t he fight?)
Skins | Rich/Grace. (you never had a chance you know) incurable romantics never do
Rich stretches his palm over Grace’s knee, his thumb rubbing circles over the spot where bone meets flesh as a breathy sigh escapes past her lips. Her eyes flutter shut, her hair splayed around the pillow as he kisses her temple, her cheekbone, her jawline. Her palm is smooth, feathering over his shoulders to curl around his neck; he can feel strands of hair caught between her fingers, a light, pleasant tug on his skull.
“Do you want to?” she asks softly, warm vowels ghosting over his ear.
Leaning up, he catches her eyes, clear and dilated, a vulnerability in the creases forming at the edges and the smile lifting up her lips. There’s honesty in the pressure of her fingers dancing beneath the collar of his shirt, the way she languidly waits for him to answer, blinking through the changing shadows of her eyelashes.
It’s different from the anticipation clawing at his chest, a sudden flood of anxiety and excitement. She’s calming, a rounded hum gliding through sharp jitters. Grace does that to him, makes him feel like his skull is pounding, a cacophony of noise that’s surprising and good and he just wants more more more in a way he hasn’t. He exhales, “yes, yes,” faster than he means too.
“Okay, Richard.” She laughs airily into the corner of his mouth, her lips pressing solidly into his skin before dragging him to her, biting his lip, slipping her tongue in between his gasp. Hot and sweet, tasting of chocolate and strawberries, his hand trailing up her thigh.
And then, dejected, “Oh no!”
“What?” he asks, hand stilling instantly at the edge of her skirt. He hopes he didn’t do anything wrong. He’ll fucking kill himself if he did anything wrong.
“I have to meet my parents for dinner.” She frowns apologetically, pushing up off her elbows as Rich rolls over, flat on his back, trying to even out his breathing.
Grace rolls over him, her knee jabbing into his thigh as she stumbles off the bed, grabbing her jacket and purse hurriedly before turning to him and fluidly pressing her mouth to his like a promise.
The Social Network | Mark/Eduardo. watch your compost turn to coal
Mark pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, unable to compartmentalize his annoyance and guilt and exhaustion. Not anymore, he can’t. His emotions and Facebook clouding together and intertwining in ways they aren’t supposed to do, weren’t supposed to do. Confusion whitens his knuckles as he thinks about the betrayal burning in Eduardo’s eyes, the sharp syllables pouring out of his mouth. Clarity pounds in his ears as he remembers the smallness in Sean’s voice over the phone, the paranoia sticking to each word. There’s no easily discernible solution.
To anything. No algorithm that contains the answer, no line of code that needs to be adjusted to fix the problem.
He doesn’t hear the squeak of shoes on tile, the rustle of a jacket or the staggered breathing. He doesn’t hear anything until there’s a loud slur behind him saying, “fuck you fuck you fuck you.”
Mark twirls the chair around, noticing the redness rimming Eduardo’s eyes, the slump of his shoulders, his fingers clutching at a half empty bottle of vodka. “Fuck you, you son of a bitch.”
Any rage Mark felt earlier has dissipated into an attempt at numbness that isn’t working as well as he’d like. He sighs and blinks and responds, “Eduardo.”
“That’s it? That’s all you have to say to me?”
No. “Yes.”
“Fuck you.”
“Would you like me to call you a cab?” Mark asks. It seems like the proper thing to do in this situation. He knows Sean would call security, smirk at Eduardo being forced out of the offices for the second time today. Mark doesn’t think he could take the image.
Eduardo stares at him, bites his lip. The silence is uncomfortable, even for Mark. He fidgets with his flip flops, sliding them on and off of his feet until deciding, “I’ll call you a cab.”
He calls a car and Eduardo’s still glaring at him when he turns back to his laptop and attempts to code. When he gets the call that the car has arrived he isn’t sure what compels him to get up and nod. “The cab’s here.”
“Fuck you,” Eduardo intones, quieter this time, his eyes sliding shut as he leans in, his mouth slanting greedily over Mark’s. Mark gasps at the contact, knows the vodka bottle has slipped to the floor from the echoing crash and the splash of alcohol on his feet. It’s rough and Eduardo’s nails dig into his back like he’s trying to prove something, take something back that’s rightfully his.
Eduardo breaks away and turns, wobbles, stumbles away, presumably to catch his cab, and Mark hears the faint echo of a “fuck” when the glass doors slam shut, final.
The Vampire Diaries | Matt/Caroline. we breathed summer like the sweet air
Caroline’s chatting incessantly about student counsel, her mom’s oppressive nature, how sad she is about Bonnie’s grandmother, the store being out of her favorite nail polish, the upcoming Miss Mystic Falls pageant and every thought that tumbles through her head. Matt’s having trouble paying attention.
The sun’s setting over the forest in the distance, muted and calm, casting the illusion of a halo around Caroline’s fraying hair, her pink lip gloss drying on her mouth. “Hey,” he interrupts her rant about the grade Mr. Saltzman gave her on her final history paper.
“I know, I was like ‘hey buddy do you know--”
“Caroline.”
“What?” She asks, shaking her head slightly, frazzled by the interruption.
“Shut up,” he says, reaching over and grabbing her hand, soft and small in his larger, more calloused one, trying to eliminate any harshness in the words.
“Oh.” She glances down, smiles a little, the corners of her mouth being pulled up slowly as if by a string. “Was I talking too much? Because you can totally tell me about your day.” She looks up at him and nods definitively, “Seriously, I want to hear everything, all the mundane details about what you ate and how much you hate math and the stupid thing Tyler said and--”
He cuts her off with a kiss, the end of her sentence muffled against his mouth. She hums, grinning and resting her forehead against his. “This is good too.”
Glee | Rachel/Jesse. people will say we're in love
Rachel’s flats scoff against the tile of the hallway, leaving a dark mark on the floor and a grayish splotch on her shoe. She doesn’t notice. She’s too focused on the line of Jesse’s jaw, the flip of his hair that looks natural but is probably sculpted with care each morning. His eyes sparkle when he speaks and Rachel focuses on his words, keeping perfect time with them, the carefully placed changes in tempo. There’s a grace to the set of his shoulders, the way he stands. A confidence radiates off him in waves and masks itself as arrogance. Rachel recognizes it from whenever she’s on stage belting out a classic.
She has never been happier to be so involved, making her the perfect candidate to show the transfer students around McKinley. She vaguely hears Principal Figgins introducing Jesse to her, sees him turn to face her, a smile crests over his face and he sticks his hand out for her to shake. She grabs it, shakes enthusiastically and grins back in awe.
“Hi, I’m Jesse. Jesse St. James,” he says the words normally but they bombard Rachel as a whisper, floating to her melodiously.
“I’m Rachel. Rachel Berry,” she echoes, her heart thumping erratically around.
“Rachel Berry. I like that.” He pauses, meets her eyes, slips his hand to the small of her back and urges her forward easily. “Ready to show me around?”
She nods, gulps, and tries to regain her voice.
She relaxes as she takes him around the school, shows him which hallway his locker is in, (the same one as hers, she smiles), where the cafeteria is (advising against the vegetarian meatloaf), the gym, the bathrooms. When she gets to the auditorium he takes the lead, hopping onto the stage, his legs swinging over the ledge.
“Come on up,” he says, offering his open palm to her.
She hesitates-for show, she’s not that easy, there’s decorum to follow in situations like these-before daintily placing her hand in his strong, solid one and pushing herself onto the stage. Looking out at all the empty seats, she smiles.
Jesse begins humming “People Will Say We’re In Love” and Rachel can’t help joining in, reveling in the smoothness of his voice, his ability to match her bravado, his ability to match her. It’s exciting, the danger floating behind his irises contrasting with the sureness of his vocals, the sincerity that curves his vowels and radiates into her bones.
When he kisses her in the middle of they'll see it's alright with me, people will say we're in love, Rachel’s not sure if it’s because of the singing or because of him or a little of both, but she feels breathless. She isn’t sure she cares as she curls his fingers into his hair.
Greek | Casey ; Rusty/Ashleigh. as soon as you say it out loud
Casey cups her coffee in her palm, taking a small, burning sip, reveling in the warmth spreading down her throat and into her stomach. She pushes thoughts of law school to the back of her mind, trying to relax as she walks down the hallway, stopping in front of Rusty and Dale’s apartment-and Ashleigh, she reminds herself, she always forgets that Ashleigh lives there now, too.
She knocks on the door and waits, fumbling to check her phone when it vibrates-a text from her mother she’ll get to later-and sighs. She knocks on the door again and takes another gulp of her coffee. When there’s no answer she rolls her eyes. This is ridiculous. She tries the doorknob slowly, grateful when it gives way under her palm and she opens the door, sticking her head in cautiously, “Rusty, I, oh my god!”
Rusty and Ashleigh pull apart and jump off the couch. Rusty’s face immediately goes pink with embarrassment and Ashleigh grins sheepishly, running her fingers through her hair. Casey grips her coffee tighter and doesn’t hear the soft thud of the door closing behind her over the rushing of blood in her ears. “Oh my god!” she repeats.
“I’m sorry, Casey, I’m so sorry,” Ashleigh exhales. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you it just sort of…happened.”
“Happened?”
“Yes.” Ashleigh nods definitely. “Please don’t be mad.”
“Rusty?” Casey asks, feeling the air that left her lungs begin to come back.
“Yeah. It just happened.” He says, and then looks at the ground, his mouth cresting into a genuine smile.
She watches her brother glance at her best friend and she feels herself begin to smile, too. “It’s…fine,” she says. A beat and then. “I’m just going to need some time to adjust. But as long as you two are happy-”
“We’re happy,” Rusty interrupts, “I mean, I think.” He looks at Ashleigh again, hesitantly, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet.
“We’re happy,” Ashleigh confirms.
“Okay.” Casey lets herself grin. “Ash, do you have a minute?”
“Sure,” Ashleigh says, reaching out and squeezing Rusty’s hand before nodding that he can leave.
When Rusty’s out of the room Casey asks, “You and Rusty?”
Ashleigh just presses her lips together and nods, rocking a little from side to side.
“Okay,” Casey shakes her head, amused, “Anyway.”
The Social Network RPF | Andrew/Jesse. (this is not) the end
David doesn’t win.
They don’t win.
Andrew isn’t really surprised. It’s sad in this expected way, any last breath of hope spilling from within his chest, his heart settling back within his body once more. It’s not an ache from losing-awards aren’t the be all and end all. Pish posh-it’s from it ending. There’s a finality to the entire thing when The King’s Speech takes home the Best Picture Oscar and he claps, glancing at Jesse who’s clapping too, a small smile curving his mouth as his teeth sink into his bottom lip. Andrew imagines he’s happy it’s over, no speech to give, a break from the incessant flashing of camera’s and buzz of questions they’ve been hearing since October.
Andrew’s happy about that, too.
But-
The end is here.
But-
He never thought this day would finally arrive and now it has and he doesn’t know what the fuck to do. Breathe, maybe. Yeah, Andrew thinks he’ll start with that, exhaling out through his lungs and nodding his head along to the song being sung.
In and out and in and out and in and out, up and down and up and down and up and down.
He stops at the toilets before heading out to an afterparty to get drunk and dance and just enjoy this last night. He’s not going to mope or be sad or any of that, he’s decided, instead he’s going to enjoy himself and be grateful for this entire experience and Jesse-
Jesse shuffles in, running a hand through his hair, a frown deepening, his eyes hazy and ringed with an exhaustion that Andrew recognizes mirrored in his own stance.
“Congratulations,” Andrew says, drying his hands and studying the way Jesse shifts his weight between his feet.
“I don’t know if you heard, but we lost,” Jesse deadpans and Andrew sees the cracks in his bottom lip, watches the way his tongue juts out, quick, to moisten it.
“Ah, so that’s what happened,” Andrew feigns realization, smiles, stops, looks at his feet, the contrast between his black shoes and the crisp, clean white tile. When he looks back up and meets Jesse’s gaze he realizes something he’s probably-subconsciously-known he would do for months.
It’s not his most graceful moment when he lunges forward, settles himself against Jesse and bruises his mouth over Jesse’s, soft and needy and promising.
Promising-
This is not the end.
Parks and Recreation | Ben/Leslie. one night I fell asleep and woke up on that sunny street
Ben sits down at the small table in his old, dingy hotel room. It smells vaguely like moth balls but he’s gotten used to it over the past few months. The scoffs on the dresser, the scratch of the sheets, the drizzle of the shower, the rattle of the air conditioner, none of it bothers him any longer.
He sighs. He’s going to miss this place.
There’s a steady knocking at the door, something to an upbeat rhythm that he thinks he recognizes but can’t place. He glances to the blinking clock on the microwave reflexively and immediately remember it stopped working a few days ago, looks at his watch.
It’s late.
When he opens the door Leslie’s standing there, smiling brightly. “Ben!”
“Leslie,” he says, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice, “what are you doing here?”
“It’s Friday night,” she responds, as though that explains everything.
“Yes,” he drags out the word, opening the door a little more and allowing her to enter.
She looks around the small room, sitting down on his bed and crossing her legs. “This is a really nice room. The hotel’s business picked up last year when they finally got all the cockroaches out. It was a big deal. Front page of the newspaper for a week!”
“Oh.” He doesn’t really know what else to say.
“Come on sit down.” Leslie pats a spot on the bed beside her and grins again. “You need someone to hang out with, I need someone to hang out with. It’s Friday night!”
“Ann’s working?” Ben asks.
“No,” Leslie answer, knitting her eyebrows together briefly. “I just wanted to see you.”
There’s something about the sincerity in which she says it, the way she glances down at the comforter and pinches it between her fingers, that makes Ben cup her cheek in his palm and press his mouth to hers. She tastes like hot chocolate and Sweetums and...Leslie. He feels her grinning against his mouth, wrapping her hand around his neck, and he grins back.
The Vampire Diaries | Jeremy/Anna. the light that calls my name
He’s absentmindedly letting his eyes trail over the spines of the old books, inhaling the scent of dust and loneliness. Nobody’s read any of these in years, Jeremy can tell the cracks are old, the pages yellowing from age and not from use as he picks one up that looks promising, about the history of Mystic Falls and the supernatural, the spine cracking as he opens it, flipping to the table of contents.
“Guess who,” Anna sings, covering his eyes with her fingers. Her hands are cool against his face but her breath is warm against the back of his neck, and he resists the urge to lean back into her.
“Big Foot.” He deadpans, allowing the grin to spread over his face when she huffs and removes her hands. He spins around to face her, the pages of the book rough against his palm.
“I hate you,” she says, pouting.
“That’s too bad.”
“You don’t sound like you mean that.”
Jeremy shrugs, putting the book back on the shelf. “I guess you’ll never know.”
“Whatcha looking for?” Anna asks, walking down the aisle. Jeremy follows. He isn’t sure why, he just does. He just feels like he wants to go wherever Anna is going. “Something for a school report?”
“Nah, just looking. You?”
“Same.” Anna nods her head, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “Lately I’ve been very interested in books about boys who hang out at libraries because they want to relive the time we met.”
Jeremy chuckles, grabs her hand and laces their fingers together, pressing a kiss to her temple.
Glee | Brittany/Santana. (might as well face it) you're addicted to love
Santana’s fingers dance on the table, nails clicking against it every so often as she waits for her breadsticks to arrive or Brittany to come back from the bathroom, whichever comes first, she’s not picky.
Except her stomach feels like it’s ready to revolt in her stomach, so she’s partial to the food.
It’s different, dating Brittany. Brittany brushes Santana’s hair out of her face and tells her how much she loves her, pressing a soft kiss to her cheekbone. They go out on dates and sometimes Santana pays and sometimes Brittany does because there’s no guy to pick up the bill. They get looks from people in the hallway and Santana glares back, eyes slit and fist ready to pull out hair.
But it’s also not that different at all. They still walk through the halls, pinkies interlaced, Brittany swinging their arms back and forth happily; they still makeout in the back of Santana’s car and have sex all the time, cuddling on Brittany’s bed afterword. They still sit next to each other in Glee and Brittany laughs at all of Santana’s witty, piercing comments.
Plus there’s the added bonus that Artie looks like he’d rather be skinned than watch Brittany rest her hand on Santana’s knee.
It’s nice.
Santana didn’t know anything could be this nice.
When Brittany comes back she slides into the booth next to Santana and Santana says, “Britt, you can sit on the other side so we can see each other.”
“I can see you here,” Brittany responds.
Santana turns her head to look at Brittany and sighs, ready to explain that her neck is going to hurt like hell if she has to keep turning to look at Brittany when Brittany leans over and kisses her lightly, her fingers splaying over Santana’s knee.
“Yeah,” Santana breathes, “you can see me here.”
She kisses Brittany again, scraping her nails over the back of Brittany’s neck and slipping her tongue into Brittany’s mouth.
This is different, too. They kiss each other without needing to hide it or for the benefit of a guy.
When the breadsticks arrive Santana presses her thigh against Brittany’s and kisses her one more time. She’d rather have Brittany’s mouth on hers than all the Breadsticks in stock.
Parks and Recreation | Andy/April. somewhere there's sun, and you don't need a reason
Andy pulls April through the park, her smaller hand fits in his and he squeezes it periodically just to make sure she’s there-just to make sure she hasn’t fallen asleep on him yet. When they stop by the lake she leans her entire body into his like she’s trying to knock him over. He smiles, kissing the top of her head.
“Want to feed the ducks?” he asks. It was always his favorite thing to do as a kid. That and smoking weed.
“We don’t have any bread.” She looks up at him, her lips twitching like she’s itching to smile but holding it in. Andy knows April does that a lot and he always thinks of it as a challenge, he just needs to find a way to make her lips curve up into a smile despite the show she puts on.
“We could feed them…” He looks around the park, “grass. Or flowers. Or we could buy a soft pretzel and feed them that.”
“It’s okay,” she says, blinking out over the lake. “I hate ducks anyway.”
“You do not!”
“Do too.”
“No way, Ludgate.” He looks at her for a moment before shaking his head, not at all believing she could actually hate the cute little, quacking ducks.
“I do. They’re noisy and stupid and always leave one little duck out when you feed them,” she breathes out all at once.
“You feel sorry for the runt!” Andy exclaims, bumping her shoulder. She rolls her eyes and pulls on his hand, trying to get him back onto the path. He thinks about staying put until she relents but decides to follow her. He’s learned a lot about relationships, he has to pick his battles. “Come on admit it,” he says. This is one of those battles he can win.
“You think the little guy is cute and you want to take him home and make him all fat. You’d feed him Sweetums all day and dress him in little dog outfits and quack quack quack and read him bedtime stories like The Littlest Ducking and tell him even though he won’t turn into a swan he’s still the best and-”
She cuts him off by yanking hard on his hand, stepping up onto her tiptoes and slanting her mouth over his, warm and soft and determined. Knowing when to pick his battles also means knowing when to give up, so he runs one hand through her hair and pulls her closer with the other.
Gilmore Girls | Rory/Jess. the tune you'll be humming forever
Rory stopped lying to herself when she graduated college, it’s a personal rule. So she knows she’s been avoiding Jess despite the fact that his uncle just married her mom and now they’re at the reception. She’s fine with that, because she crossed his name out of all her books years ago and doesn’t need that to change.
She swirls her drink with her cocktail straw and sighs, leaning back in her seat, watching her mom twirl around and around in her dress, her smile taking up her entire face, her laughter echoing around the room and above the music. Luke looks awkward on the dance floor, his feet off-beat to the up-tempo song. She’s happy for them, they deserve this.
She’s so happy for them she forgets that she’s avoiding Jess until he slides into the empty chair next to her and says, “hey.”
Turning her head slowly, she answers, “hi.”
Jess stares at her for a moment, amusement jumping around in his eyes and the set of his mouth. “You sure have retained your skills as a witty conversationalist.”
“Sorry.” She sets her glass down on the table and smiles. “It’s just, the last time I saw you…”
“Let’s not bring it up.” He ducks his head, refusing to meet her eyes before looking back to the dance floor, watching the sloppy circles Lorelai makes as she spins. “I noticed Logan’s not here.”
“That’s ‘not bringing it up?” Rory asks, incredulous, trying to push a tint of annoyance into her tone, but it doesn’t quite work.
“Not at all.”
“We broke up two years ago.”
“Oh really?” Rory doesn’t like the arch of his eyebrow or tilt of his mouth.
“Really.” Rory exhales and gives up. Clearly avoidance wasn’t going to working. “Want to dance?”
Jess blinks, surprise coloring his face for a moment before he reaches out his hand. “Sure.”
The night takes a turn Rory wasn’t expecting. She spends the rest of it with Jess, dancing and talking and discussing the books they’ve read recently, bringing up past arguments about Ayn Rand and Hemingway. It’s a bit like before--like high school--with fluttering in her stomach and her pulse beating faster, faster, faster. But it’s also different, grownup.
Maybe that’s why she does it, frantic and hard and gasping, catching him on his way out of the bathroom, her mouth desperate and needing against his. She knows he’s different when he takes a minute to respond, breathing in through his noise, hands steady and strong on her waist. She feels his hesitance, unsure if he should push her away or pull her closer. He decides, his tongue slipping into her mouth, running over her teeth. He tastes vaguely of smoke and alcohol; he tastes like the Jess she used to know until he doesn’t. Until her head stops spinning and she catches her breath. A beat and her mouth is slanting over his again.
They’ve always been good at this part.
Doctor Who | Rose/Nine. the time we have, the task at hand
Everything outside the castle walls is space, sprawling and open and inviting. Rose loves the feel of the damp air against her skin, the Doctor’s hand rough and solid in hers as they walk away. King Arthur is fine, Lancelot and Guinevere haven’t done the nasty yet, and there aren’t any more aliens threatening Arthur’s reign.
Not yet, at least.
Rose kind of wants to come back, get a nice dress made for her, all regale to make her feel like a princess. She’d bring her own food and a blanket and they could sit down for a picnic. It’d make a good vacation spot, she thinks, a nice little place for the Doctor to relax and tell her about the cosmos, planets and worlds she hasn’t seen, places that don’t yet exist mixing with the archetypal past.
“We should come back,” she says, stepping around a patch of mud.
“If you’d like,” he responds, his eyes softening. He seemed angrier today than usual, which usually means he’s sadder than usual. Rose leans her head against his arm, trying to transfer her good mood into him, because if anyone deserves a moment of relief, it’s the Doctor.
She spots the TARDIS over the next hill and slows her steps a little, doesn’t notice the way the Doctor slows with her effortlessly. Getting up on her tiptoes, she attempts to kiss his cheek, but between her strides she misses, her mouth hitting his jaw a little harder than she expected, making him laugh.
Suddenly there’s a cheeky grin on his face, more life in his step. “Where to next? The future? Los Angeles?”
“Wherever,” Rose responds, stopping in front of the TARDIS to place a light kiss over the corner of his mouth and squeeze his hand.
He needs someone to make him smile.
(She’s stay with him forever.)
Buffy the Vampire Slayer | Spike/Drusilla. if i'm not mistaken it's been in flames
The fire licks at his heels and Dru licks at his neck, both threatening to engulf him completely, heat spreading from the back of his legs and from the pit his stomach. Spike grinds his hips into hers and she snarls, bites his vein hard. He drags his nails over her bony back, pressing tiny moons into her thin, pale skin, tempted to draw blood as she pulls on the skin of his neck, murmuring poetry against the flesh, her voice lifting and falling, louder then softer.
Spike runs his hands up Drusilla’s back, scraping around her neck without caution or preamble, tangling his fingers in her hair, watching smoke twirl into the sky as Dru twirls her tongue along his jaw, nibbling every so often, hard hard hard soft hard hard soft, no distinguishable pattern but to the music of the stars and the screams of the people. He drags her mouth to his, bruising and rough, teeth clanking and tongues attacking.
They revel in rebellion, in chaos and destruction. The world falling apart one country at a time, sprawling over landscapes at arrhythmic intervals, places rebuild and they leave, chasing the anarchy wherever they go, leaving rubble and blood in their path. Everything crumbles and they survive, following the effulgence of turmoil, of night, of Dru’s teeth sinking into the flesh of a child’s neck and then into Spike’s bottom lip.